Sunday, December 31, 2006

Turns out Santa had an extra goodie for me in his bag-o-tricks: a new digital camera! It's the baby version of Harry's XTI - a Canon PowerShot A710 with that all-important option: image stabilization!

Here are some snap-happy pics from the "test run":

My kitchen, with the purple chairs from downstairs. I have yet, too, to find some cute hooks for my three-year old, still pristine aprons!

A little reminder during the holiday season...

A way too-close up shot of me with a rather spotty complexion. I'd like to blame the camera - a malfunction or something - but nope - those are my massive amounts of freckles. No wonder I still look twelve!

A picture of Harry taking a picture:

My living room mantle - complete with too much Blenko glass. I'm really glad that Huntington, WV does NOT lie on a fault line...

Harry decided to go outside and take pics of our neighborhood and of our front door:

And - a picture of me - looking none too happy - in classic black and white - AND I found out that my camera has a color sapping action - so I took a picture of my bouquet Harry sent me on the "First Day of Holly"...

That's it for now, however, I'm heading to a New Year's Eve party (complete with a headache and an "I Heart Jack Sparrow" pink tee) and may be able to get some rather interesting shots of my buds - three (or four) sheets to the wind!

Thursday, December 28, 2006

While going through my outbox today I found some interesting tidbits that Outlook deemed necessary to "save as draft."

I cannot say when, or even why, I created the following - nor even if I've posted them before - but - for your viewing pleasure/horror - I present to you - DRAFTS:

For some reason my hair, even though it is harnessed in a very prettypressed black leather headband, is still revolting. Little stray follicles are standing on end and sticking straight up likesoldiers lining up for battle. The Battle of a Bad Hair Day.

Coming to work today - I'm a bit groggy - as if I've slept through a veryimportant event and am quite pissed about it - but can't recall what thateven was or may have been. In this hazy fog of semi-consciousness I veer into the turning lane andstop abruptly. A tiny white man, baked brown from days in the sun, and wearing tightjogging shorts, is gently loping through the street. Not on the sidewalk.Not on the curb. Nope. He's jogging along the yellow lines - in the middleof the street. I stare, oblivious to the horns of others, people more determined to end upat work than I, and watch his bobbing head disappear down Third Avenue. I wonder - what kind of person does it take to, without fear, jog down themiddle of a busy street littered with bad drivers from neighboring Ohio andKentucky? And more so - what kind of person does it take to don tiny redshorts while jogging - after the age of eighty? At any rate, it was something to see and a sight that shall be seared ontomy brain for quite some time...

Twas Friday the Thirteen,And all through the land,Not a creature was stirring,Not even a Lawyerman,When all of a sudden,there arose such a clatter,And I bolted from my desk,To see what was the matter,And what to my bleary eyes did appear,But the littlest associate,In work up to her ears.I rushed to her aidand presented her my hand,Wanting to help her,In this dreary lawyer land,Instead she looked at me evilly,And with one squinted eye,And said "begone with you,For I know you will buy,too much stuff on your trip ,And leave me here, you selfish, mean lil' sh... person!

(This one I'm pretty sure I've posted before...) :

I have self-diagnosed an affliction that’s been plaguing me for years: Ihave Nocturnal ADD. Yes, horrors of horrors, every night/early morning I amawoken by the sound of music playing in my head, half-finished thoughts,story ideas swirling in broken scenes, and things I should have said duringprior conversations. In this torrential tornado of hyper happenings - I seeimages, too. Bits of the last Harry Potter movie, imagined instances inHalf-Blood Prince, scenes from Joss Whedon’s series, and childhood showsthat were near and dear to me swirl by in a mess of mixed-up media. I figure that, as I sleep, my brain begins to plump with unreleasedthoughts and ideas pushing at my consciousness. This pushing eventuallyturns to full-on ramming at the side of lobes. Eventually, the mind takesover and wakes me from a deep, dreamless sleep and then prevents me fromgetting back to REM by forcing me, head-first, into a vat of dreams whereHarry Potter is casting me in his new movie starring Tucker from Disney’sFlash Forward and where I will be wearing only a furry, Chewbacca-lookingtowel for protection from the elements since we are to be filming atop aniceberg. I have a large number of lines, but no time to memorize so my bestbud, Tiffany will be off-stage prompting me while wearing a monkey on herhead and fighting off the vampires, Buffy-style, that keep trying to touchit. Eventually I get in front of the camera which looks more like theLeaning Tower of Pisa, and start to sing words to a Lena Horne song. I winan Oscar made of Cheese for my efforts...

(I've taken the liberty to enter pauses between words even though, in reality, there are none in Summer-speak)

"Hey - thanks for bringing me those tampons when I needed them the other night. But I didn't read the directions - were the flames supposed to shoot out before or after insertion?"

"Huh?" I had no clue what she was talking about. With Summer - that's not an odd thing.

"Well, I was fine until I left the bathroom and started walking around and - it was like instant fire!"

"Why? What happened?" It's awell-documented fact that I have an irrational fear of "involved" feminine products. NOW I had to worry about them burning, too?!

"Turns out they were really, overly scented - I couldn't get it out fast enough! The more my legs rubbed together as I ran for the bathroom - I thought I was going to burst into flames!"

By this point, I've laid my head on my desk and am weeping with laughter. One of the partners here at Lawyerman, Lawyerman, and Lawyerman was settled in the large conference room not twenty feet away from my desk and I was sure he could here my gargling.

"You're a - a -" I stop and wipe my eyes, "YOU'RE A FIRECROTCH!" By this point I'm openly cackling when my Office Manager saunters by with a bewildered look on her overly made up face.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Twas the Friday before Christmas, and all through the firm, everyone was stirring, wanting to go the heck HOME ALREADY!

In walks my runner and he says "So my dad's been standing in line for the Wii since 5:30 this morning and he was number eleven and turns out that Toys-R-Us only got in ten and the lady says 'we have 60 gig PS3's - anyone want those?' and no one wanted them - they wanted Wiis so -" I cut him off.

"Whoah - Toys-R-Us has Playstation 3's - in stock?" Harry had been wanting a PS3 like that kid in that horrible movie with the "You'll shoot your eye out" gun. So I called Diane at the store and she confirmed that, yes, they had them in stock and yes, they were the 60 gig and yes, they were approximately the same price as a black market kidney.

So I did what any other loving wife would do.

I called and begged my Mommy Dearest to go get it. And she did. She pulled her arthritic butt out from between the couch cushions, hopped in her Grannymobile and made it to Toys-R-Us in ten minutes.

She calls me from the store, confused, "Holly - they don't have that thing."

"Mom, I JUST talked to Diane, the manager, not fifteen minutes ago - what are you asking for?"

"A $600 MP3 player - they said they don't have anything in the store that costs that much."

I sighed and said "Ask for Diane - tell her I called a little bit ago for a" I paused for emphasis, "Playstation Three."

"Oh -" I could hear her repeat it back and then a gaggle of laughing salespeople.

"Yeah - they got it."

Funds were transferred, moms were praised and some workers got to have a nice chuckle at my mother's expense on the last shopping weekend before Christmas.

I was happy. "You're gonna get him a game, too - aren't you?"

Well, crap.

So, off I go to do some research and find out that the most wanted game is "Resistance: Fall of Man" which is kinda like Aliens v. Man in a WW II setting.

Works for me.

I'm standing in line for about a half an hour after work when this guy in front of me starts getting chatty. "Oh - buyin' a game, are ya?" No, nimrod - I have a wobbly table at home - needs a prop - thought a $60 game would be PERFECT for it... People kill me. But I digress.

I smiled politely and shrugged. "Got him the system, had to have a game to play, too!"

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

I don't know when this happened, or when I stopped being the persued and am now the persuer - but it has occurred and I find myself vying for my hubby's attention every time he's within five feet of my grubby paws.

I stroke his hair, rub his chin, pat his arm, grope his - well - uh - never mind - let's just say I'm overly affectionate. And I'm not really sure if this a new thing or an escalating version of me. Whatever it is - I'm annoying myself as well as him.

Maybe my biological clock has started ticking. Or has started ticking louder - either way- it could be the cause of my heightened sense of gropeage. Where's the snooze bar on this darn thing? Undoubtedly my body is not ready for kids, for children, rugrats, spawn, hanger-on-ers? I still cringe when I hear a baby's cry - I still gag when I see a snot-encrusted toddler. I still recoil when I spot that woman who just could not say "no" to HER grope-happy hubby and is now doomed to spend the next 1-18 years pushing around a buggy full of screaming little people!

So, whether it's just the fact that I see him very little or the fact that my (gulp!) biological (warfare) clock is a'tickin' - I need to learn to keep my hands to myself.

Or just wait 'till he's asleep.

hee hee.

"What is this? Oh, but of course. This little one wish to commit suicide to prove her love for me. What a sweet gesture. Nevertheless, I must prevent it. " Pepe Le Peu

Monday, December 18, 2006

My good bud, Alison and I decided to go to Rio Grande, our favorite lunching spot, today. We were seated rather quickly and shown to our "usual" booth (yes, we eat there that freakin' much!). Instead of being greeted by a familiar face - we got a newbie.

Fine - just bring on the cheese dip.

So - I order our drinks and he looks at me - smiles and looks at my boobs.

Um - er - 'kay. Fine - just bring on that cheese dip!

It had already been an odd lunchtime experience considering upon our arrival to "The Rio" we were greeted by not one, but two low, appreciative whistles. This was puzzling for two reasons. Number one was because Alison and I were attempting to free ourselves from my Mother's Taurus with its velcro-like seats which leaves any occupant flopping around like a half-dead trout and number two - Alison had just finished loudly announcing to the entire parking lot that she had a run in her hose.

Neither of which is all that sexy. Nor deserving of the dog whistle.

So now that we are seated and ready to order, I'm happily anticipating the large and cheesy "Jumbo Vegetarian burrito."

"I would like a Jumbo burrito - no meat," I said to the chubby mustached man.

"No meat," he repeated and then smiled at me, looked me in the eyes - and then looked at my breasts again.

When he brought our food out a millisecond later - I said "Thanks - oh -and don't forget the cheese dip!"

He said "Cheese dip" and then dropped his eyes.

By this time I was turning red and Alison was like "Okay - I think he likes your boobs."

When he asked if we needed anything - every three minutes - he would stand very close to me and plaster a big grin on his face. I was beginning to think this guy was a broken clock - the way his eyes kept rolling up and down in his head.

Now that school is out and my life has resumed its gentle hum of boring repition and gentle sway of pleasant plainness - I am in the need of:

1. A good book to read. One where I will laugh, cry, drool and perhaps even add to my "love forever" list of books. I sat before my large and literally over-flowing bookshelf this morning before finally selecting a book that I didn't really want to read - but wasn't ready for the darkness of a Stephen King book either.

It may be stupid - but at least it's something to read during the dreaded 2-3pm hour!

2. A good movie to watch. I don't care when it was made, whether it's dvd or vhs or only available through downloads on AOL. My brain would like some entertainment, please.

3. New recipies - preferrably ones that will get me over my "meat phobia". For some reason I'm incredibly nervous about cooking with meat - scared I'll make everyone sick or something. I swear, I think I'm just a really bad vegetarian...

That's about all I can come up with - I'm just feeling the need to be entertained -so please - if you have any suggestions - lemmie know!

Thursday, December 14, 2006

I arrived early Tuesday morning - too early in fact. I hit the hospitality suite at the Robert C. Byrd Institute at 8 AM and expected to wait in a huge line of press.

I was the only one there.

So I got a steaming hot white chocolate and waited.

Once my credentials were "checked" which involved a blonde chick handing me a large white envelope and a press kit - yup - no blood test, no social security number - nothing - I then stepped out of the hospitality suite.

And missed a step.

I sprayed myself with my boiling cup of chocolate.

I'm sure I appeared to be a half-melted snowchick as people strolled past me and tried to avoid eye contact with the chubby girl, so thirsty, that she has doused herself in her beverage.

I decided to hit Fourth Avenue and check out the set up.

I was amazed.

The City of Huntington had transformed itself into - a large jungle gym. Wtih a large green stripe going down the middle of it. I was impressed - and anxious to start climbing.

I hit the pavement and saw Huntington through the eyes of a tourist - a slightly damp, chocolate-smelling tourist.

I kiled time by sitting in Starbucks reading and looking at my "We Are Marshall" press pass. The movie, which I got to see at 11am that day, was AMAZING. I shall not divulge the inner workings of the flick - I will just say - that - after the credits rolled - no one moved. The entire 100+ journalists packed into the theater like day old sardines - sat silently and watched the whole movie. We then shuffled out, one-by-one in a hushed silence.

Afterwards - the PREMIERE!!!!:

And then green carpet:

My Matthew Fox - who caught me staring at him with a goofy grin on my face INSTEAD of taking pictures of him like Iwas supposed to be doing - and he cracked up - it was HILARIOUS! OH - how I wish he was a "chubby chaser"!

Matthew, Matthew and Anthony Mackie:

A good shot of the cast and the actual people who lived the film as life:

I had a wonderful time and thank my editor, Heather, at the VoiceboxX for nominating me, a newbie humor columnist, to attend this history-making event in downtown Huntington, WV.

Monday, December 11, 2006

I have just received my credentials and invitation to the hospitality suite for the upcoming "WE ARE... MARSHALL!" movie premiere happening tomorrow in beautiful downtown Huntington, WV.

So far, the perks for this job are: seeing the stars walk the green carpet and having an excuse to take pictures and gawk at them, free press screening of the movie, a day off of work, and a chance to prove myself as a writer!

So - send happy thoughts my way and please pray for me - make sure I don't trip over the Green Carpet and send myself flying like a chubby missile toward one of the Matthews!

Sunday, December 10, 2006

As I hit the "submit" button on the pop-up box on WebCT it prompted with "Are you sure you want to submit this assignment?"

Oh, hell, yeah, I want to submit this bleepin' paper! I thought to myself as I forcefully stabbed my mouse with my index finger.

With that one small hand movement (and a bit more jazz hands) I was done with my school semester.

I survived, I thought with glee as my mind floods with things that I now have time to do: go see movies, read books, bake cookies and lemon bars, email friends, update my blog, concentrate on my writing career.

Actually get started on your Christmas Shopping List!

With that being said - I'm off to go to the store (I will have to clean the cobwebs from the cupboard before filling them wih food once again), Border's books at the mall, maybe a nice dinner with Harry and to go see my neglected family!

My only - wait - what is that?

From my seat at the kitchen table (buried under piles of papers on Stephen Crane) I can hear Harry talking on his phone. He's standing in the downstairs driveway which happens to be directly 'neath the windows I am sitting beside.

Thursday, December 7, 2006

As you may have guessed, my dear ever-traveling husband is "on the road again" leaving me alone with an ailing kitty and a pile of laundry that has consumed the floor of my downstairs kitchen. Everywhere - as far as the eye can see is piles upon piles of dirty clothes courtesy of J.Crew, Banana Republic, Tommy Hilfiger, I.N.C. and Polo.

I sigh and grab onto the pile of clothes closest to the door to begin the cumbersome sorting process. Suddenly a small brown spider lunges at me from the folds of a Tagless Tee.

I scream like a banshee on helium - nearly shattering the twin floor-to-ceiling display cases filled with Simpson's figurines to my right. Flinging the shirt to the ground, I pick up the nearest object and start spraying the spider, who will, from now on, be nice and starched.

He's still scurrying like "Frosty the Spiderman" when I plop the can on top of him and yell at Harry to come help me.

That was four days ago.

I had honestly forgotten about my arachna-nemesis - until I went to iron a shirt for work this morning - and realized that my spray starch was being used as a cruel and unusual prison.

I ended up at work with an unperfectly pressed shirt.

Somehow - it's Harry's fault....

I decided to exact my revenge when laundry day continues this evening. Yup, I, the killer of "spiders gone wild", will "forget" to use fabric softener on his "man panties."

The vows were "love, honor and cherish" I didn't hear a thing about "thou shalt provide non-spider-cleaning-upper hubby with non-scratchy underwear"!

Today, while I sat at my desk and listened to the "Holly" station on XM - the sky behind me filled with large fluffy flakes and - the bestest Christmas song EVER filled through my tiny computer speakers: "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas".

I don't know what it is about this song that makes me just bounce and giggle while pursing my lips and singing along - it's just a happy little tune that makes me forget about my emptying checking account, my furry sicky friend and the fact that my hubby is two hours away in some podunk town, during this Christmas Season.

But I will hold my head up high, toss my curls (I was too lazy to straighten my hair this morning) defiantly and bellow carols for all the office to hear.

Why? Because my name is Holly - and for that - it's my civic duty to spread cheer like a female Santa - so get happy - dammit - or I'll come shove a sprig of mistletoe up your nose!

Tuesday, December 5, 2006

I think it's really good that others can't see what we do when we're alone.

THAT could get really embarressing.

In the past hour I've done the following:

1. Giggled like mad while quoting from an essay on "The Death of the Lady (Novelist).

2. Burst in to seven completely different renditions of three different Christmas carols. My favorite one so far is the Bette Midler version of "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" complete with jazz hands.

3. Drank three cans of Pepsi. In a row.

4. Ate three Lindor White Chocolate Truffle Balls. In a row.

5. Ate a large batch of Krusteaz Lime Bars (darn you, Cindy!). I would stop typing now - but I'm now stuck to the keys with green goo. :)

6. Clapped like a seal when I saw Luke and Christopher have a "man fight" in the middle of Stars Hollow on the CW's "Gilmore Girls."

7. Lit a clove scented candle. Played in the flame. Had to resist launching into a Beavis tirade of "Fire! FIRE!."

8. Launched, instead, into a jazzy rendition of Michael Buble's "Let is Snow."

9. Pulled my hair into a pony tail. Pulled it out. Put it in a half pony tail. Took it out. Wound it up in a bun. Pulled it out.

10. Successfully wasted a full hour that should've been spent on my essay about "The House of Mirth." I'm so proud.

About an hour ago - before all this animated wasting of time - I had to give Phoebe her meds. Alone. She's getting wise to the scheme. I pull out the turquoise towel and she attempts to dart. Luckily for me she's only running on like a 1/2 cylinder so I catch her and plop her into my lap. I prepare her syringe of antibiotics and pry open her tiny mouth with my finger (thanks to Dan - I can still type with all ten fingers) - just as I'm about to squirt a small amount onto her pink tongue - she bitch slaps me with a paw that flies from under the towel and makes immediate contact with my left cheek.

I panic and - empty half the banana-smelling goo onto my arm.

I swear the little gasping feline smirks at me.

"Oh no you don't!" I quickly refill up to the 1ML line.

This time I manage to get most of it in - some on my arm and a small smudge on my glasses - but MOST goes into Phoebe.

Afterwards, she's so mad - she won't move. She lays in my arms like a highly pissed off catepillar, waiting to become an even more pissed off butterfly. Finally, after three minutes of heavy breathing (still not deep) she bucks and frees herself from my lap.

Stopping a few inches from my knees - she looks at me and shakes like Hooch from Turner and Hooch. Spit strings, laden with that foul, sweet-smelling, liquid launches from her jaws and on to my right cheek.

Harry calls from Ripley, WV.

"I'm bored," he whines.

"Really?" I say while whiping at my sticky cheek with a rag, "I just got beat up by a sickly cat who covered me in her drool."

"Still, it's better than being bored," he reasoned.

Next time, post medicine injection, I'm going to toss Phoebe into his closet and let her shake her drool onto his Robert Talbot shirts.

Now that would be a cure for boredom!

BTW- Pheobe's bloodwork came back - she's not suffering from pneumonia. And he's not certain that it's cancer either. Hello, square one, how I've missed thee...

Since the paper I write for doesn't have up the link for my latest column - I'll include it here - for your reading "pleasure"!

There are times in every girl’s life when she must question her holding on that elusive thing called sanity.On two separate occasions within the past few weeks I have felt that my sweaty, white-knuckled grip on the sane part of my brain was dangerously close to lifting off, taking flight and leaving me forever.I have decided, for the mental health of all women and girls out there struggling to juggle a career, schooling, family, hobbies and social pressures, to let them know – they are not alone.

I have been doing quite well as of late in my Graduate School online poetry class.I have learned terms, studied poets, and counted lines, stanzas, forms and rhymes all to better understand what makes a poet tick.And now, many assignments later, I was to begin writing “The Big Paper” (hereinafter to be called “TBP”).I was to fill ten pages of precious Microsoft Word space with an American Poetry topic of my choice.I proposed to my professor the following: “I would like to study the very different poet Stephen Crane and maybe compare and contrast him to other Literary Giants of the day, like Emerson or Browning.”My ever-prompt prof quickly wrote back via the wonderful (complicated and ever-bug-filled) WebCT:“Good, Holly.Emerson would be a great comparison to Crane.”I copied down his suggestion in my notes and immediately developed an odd case of schizophrenia-dyslexia as I printed: “Crane v. Browning” at the top of my page.

Eight and a half pages into “TBP” I developed a nagging migraine that left me wishing I hadn’t purchased such a psychedelic rug for the family room as it was triggering a nice vertigo to go with the burning, smacking sensation that was working its way up my neck.I log in to WebCT and quickly submit my Rough Draft, also known as “I’m embarrassed to have even have typed this load of poetic-based rubbish” and crawl up to bed.At one in the morning I’m jolted by the following realization:I did it all wrong!Yup.After sending it in is when I realize that Browning is not even an American Poet!So, I do what any other girl would do in my situation – I commenced a massive freak out.

Earlier this week was when the second instance of my slipping sanity manifested itself for all the world to see.Harry, my loving hubby and the cleaner-upper of the yard, begged, pleaded and whined until I finally agreed, reluctantly, to go to the shooting range.

Let me pause here to ask one general question:If you knew your wife’s stress levels were zooming somewhere past the planet-formerly-known-as-Pluto – would you stick a pistol in her grubby paws?I thought not – but Harry did.

We met another couple at a local gun range and I listened carefully as I was taught the basics of firearm safety.I fought the urge to let the Lifetime Movie of the Week titles stroll across my mind like a doomed marquee:“Bang, Bang: A Woman’s Accident in the Woods”;“The Holly Shivel Story: Itchy Trigger Finger of Death”;“Why I Wore Lipstick When I Accidentally Shot my Husband’s Big Toe Off.”I shook my head and tried to pay attention to the life-saving techniques my friend, Mike, was calmly explaining to his wife, Meghan, and me.He was detailing the trick to “releasing the action” when I felt my mind wander again, and began listing off a carefully mentally bulleted “To-Do List” across my brain.

“Okay – now release the action,” Mike said and looked at me expectantly.My tiny right hand tried to wiggle up to the little button – but to no avail.So I put one hand on top the gun and used the other to pop the action – and promptly got my finger stuck in it.I got my finger stuck in a gun! was all I could think as I began an internal countdown to my next psychotic break.10, 9, 8… “Okay, now keep your arms loose..” Mike warned as I fired and cringed.7, 6, 5.. “Okay, Holly, your arms were too tense, the shell got stuck.Try again…”4,3,2…“Nope, still too tense, it’s stuck again…”One. LIFTOFF!I insisted that Harry take me home, as a meltdown was imminent.

“Will you call HCA for me?Book me a penthouse suite, please?”I beg my husband on the way home as tears streak my face and I search for a napkin in the glove box.“I’m just too stressed-out…”

“You don’t want to go to HCA, baby…” he said sweetly.“Besides, I’m sure they don’t have 500 thread count sheets.”

I stared at him and then dried my tears.“Really?Oh, right.Think they’d keep my reservation –just in case?”

But as the semester end looms before me like a bright, shining beacon of hope and as my Poetry professor assures me that my rough draft was just that – rough – but possessed good “bones”, I can feel myself relaxing. I’m sure things are going to be just fine.

Unless they continue to jackhammer the street below my office window.

And then, I can’t be held responsible for my actions:“The Holly Shivel Story: How I Beat Up Construction Workers Wielding a Knee-High Payless Boot.”

Friday night we rushed her to the Kitty ER where they took x-rays and told me that the reason why my beloved feline can't breathe is due to masses of - something - in her lungs. "Could be pneumonia, could be cancer - we'd have to do more tests to be sure..."

After midnight we picked her back up and took her home where she slept next to the bed in a little, shaky, furry pile. Shallow breaths rack her little frame as she struggles to sleep. Food, once her favorite pasttime has now been forgotten.

I took her to Dr. Tambling, her regular vet who took more x-rays only to annouce "It could be pneumonia, or cancer... we really can't be sure..." Phoebe slept fitfully in her tiny carrier while Dr. Tambling stressed the importance of squirting 1 ML of an antibiotic into my ever-shrinking kitty's mouth. "Be careful not to choke her - we don't want anything else foriegn getting into her lungs."

No pressure, there. Ugh.

So I have to hold her - upright - while I pry open her tiny mouth with my finger, stick the syringe in and give her the dose in three increments. All the while praying she doesn't choke on it and hoping, too, that she doesn't take one of my much-needed fingers with her when she flies away from me in fit of furry fury.

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Why is it that a little thing like changing your wallpaper and screen saver on your computer makes you feel refreshed?

I've been at work for ten minutes now - and I now have the cutest picture of my niece staring at me from the desktop ...and a brand new scrolling screen saver: "Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Please?" Reason being - it's 70 degrees today. It's the last day of November and I'm sweating in my cute brown sweater with satin cuffs!

Could be, too, that my swiftly approaching deadlines for my whopping two classes are encroaching on me like big game hunters. And I, the gimpy gazelle with too much winter weight. In other words - I'm an easy target and I've made myself that way with my excellently polished skills of procrastination.

So - for the next few days my postings will be slim, my brain will be fried and my fingers will be furiously formulating fun words on to blank Microsoft Word pages.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

My kitchen, post-water damage, is now the most delightful shade of green. The paint is smooth, the lines are crisp and everything is perfection.

So you can understand my horror when I come home from Black Friday shopping to find my cousin staring up at the light fixture in my kitchen - watching the water droplets fall. "Hey - you got a leak here."

(Pictured: Harry and my water-lovin' cousin)

Harry commenced utter freak out while I started calculating the possibilities of what actually happened to what my cousin is telling me happened. The guest shower which does have a small, miniscule, crack in it - is right above the kitchen - but not enough to cause the geyser gush that was occurring down the tiffany glass light. We went upstairs to inspect - me walking calmly up the stairs and down the hall to the squishy floor of the bathroom and Harry flying up like a four-legged mere cat on acid. "We can't afford this! Not ANOTHER water damage!" cried my beloved as he clutched at his chest, Sanfred style.

Translation: "I just bought an $800 camera and I don't want to take it baaaaaaack!"

I look at the wall and notice the water drops are very close to the edge of the wall and are peppered throughout the ledge of the tub, too. The floor in front of the bathtub is soaked.

"Are you sure you got the shower curtain in, man?" Harry ask him -hands running through his hair at Mach ten like a man with a "thou shalt not kill wife's cousin" tic.

"DUDE! I know how to take a shower!"

Twenty minutes later my cousin admits that the curtain may not have been entirely inside the tub before he took his shower.

"Well - I need to get a better shower curtain, anyway.. that one was, like, a dollar..." I say, trying to make the situation less volatile.

"Yeah, you really need to buy better shower curtains. Ones with those sucker things on the bottom," he said with a serious look on his face.

I tried again: "Well, the one I bought, I was in a hurry and at Gabe's - it was only a dollar. I wasn't expecting good qual-" he cuts me off.

"You needed to buy the one with the suction cups - only get the ones with the suction cups!"

So - if someone is at your house and they take a shower in your tub -make sure you have a curtain with heavy duty suction cups - otherwise - it WILL be your fault.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

I'll wait until ya'all stop gasping. I'm sure the realization of my slack-a-tude is something that is both unexpected and unimaginable, however, I can assure you that it is completely true.

So I'm not really sure how I convinced myself to go to Graduate School. I gathered papers, applied, e-mailed, begged and pleaded until they let me in. I even took the damn GRE with its confusing questions that may or may not be trick questions and math problems that would've made Einstien break into cold sweats. Now - with three classes left to go in my American Lit class I'm told "Hey - you Grad Students have to give a short presentation about your topic for the class next Monday."

Great!

Only - I've yet to pick a topic.

The small, tiny-handed professor decided that I was to write a paper proposal about Stephen Crane's novella "Maggie" and how it pertains to feminism literary criticism. I didn't want to do that - I'm not exactly even sure what theories one would apply when approaching a work like "Maggie" with a feminist slant.

So - here's my call for help.

If ya'all have any ideas for me - short of running over my Professor with my car - too traceable - then please let me know!

Monday, November 27, 2006

Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for what we have, grateful for friends and family and - to discover what is really precious to us.

Like grandchildren.

My mother gets it into her head that she needs to teach Gillian (age 3) and Sammy Jo (age 3 going on 30) how to play "Candyland." It was like watching someone herd cats. Sammy caught on pretty well, her small round mouth turning up into a smile when she got to move "Dora the Explorer" onto a purple square.

Gillian, on the other hand, picked up the monkey, "Boots", and popped him in her mouth. Mom plucked the plastic footwear-sporting monkey from her grandchild's mouth and replaced him on to the board. Gillian then went for the unattended "Dora." This repeated until mom was bouncing on her ottoman in frustration while Gillian continued to draw cards out of sequence and Sammy sat prissily back just relishing being "The Good One."

Finally, it all came to a header.

Literally.

"Gillian, look, hey, Gillian!" Mom pleaded with her only grandchild to pay attention to the rules, "Gillian, KNOCK, KNOCK!" she tapped her lightly on her tiny, curl-ridden forehead.

Harry erupted into peals of laughter, Summer snorted and I said "GREAT teaching skills, there, Mom! Is that how they taught you to do it in your Master's Program?"

Gillian smiled at all of us, stuck a card in her mouth and toddled off - she'd had enough "fun" for one day...

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

I tossed and I turned and I aggravated my dear husband by poking him suggestively and groping him with the innocent exclamation "Well - that's NOT Phoebe's, is it?!" For some reason - when I can't sleep - I instantly start bugging Harry to "put out." Even if I'm not in the mood.

Now, don't get me wrong, if I went about it in a different way, it may be sexy and fun - but I attack him like a sex-starved "Lolita" - just for my own amusement.

He rolls over and fakes a snore. I retaliate by grabbing a handful of his Polo Man Panties-clad bubble butt.

He pretends to not notice.

I go for the two-handed handful-o-buttcheek approach.

He still ignores my immature cannoodling.

I take a more active stance - I give him a "reach around."

He hops up, rolls over and yanks all the pillows out from under my head. In one fail swoop, I've been incapacitated.

But I'm still not tired.

Seeing as how I would find no release for my over-worked mind, I rolled over in a fit of motion - and felt my leg contact with something warm and fuzzy.

I punted Phoebe off the bed.

Bad move. Now, I'm sure I'm not going to get a good night's sleep seeing as how I'm going to have to keep one eye on my hubby who will be looking for vengence and the other on his short, pissed-off accomplice.

I plan on going to bed tonight with the tv on Sportscenter and a bag full of kitty treats in my hand just to appease my victims...

Monday, November 20, 2006

The night before, Harry helped me cram for the math portion by "relieving my tension" with some coital bliss and then , in lieu of cuddling, we cracked open some mean Algebra. He didn't mind - he loves numbers - so - really - if sports would have been on during the more intimate points of the evening - he would've been in testosterone heaven. Wait a sec - IT WAS ON! DAMN YOU SPORTCENTER!

Anyway, when we got to the Geometry review - I brushed it off "Nah - I hate that stuff - they won't ask me that..."

I wasn't too concerned - all I had to do was score something on the test to fulfill my English Grad requirement.

I arrive a full 45 minutes before the test starts and find a sweet corner spot in which to park my car. I walk around to the back of the old Morrow library on campus and pull at the door handle.

It's locked.

Apparently - only ONE door can be used - and this was not it.

Twenty minutes later I arrive in the funnily smelling basement of the library. I'm given a locker key and told to remove my purse, umbrella, paper pencils and coat and put it in the compartment. I'm then strip searched, cavity searched and patted down before I'm allowed into the camera-filled room in which I am to test (okay - maybe it wasn't THAT bad - but I asked if I could keep my coat and they looked at me like I had just asked if I could pee in their dying houseplant).

I have just made it through the majority of the written portion and can hear nothing but my own, phlegmatic, deep breathing ( I hate ear plugs) when I notice a small speck creeping towards my hand.

I look just as the tiny, crazed spider lunged for my index finger. I stifle a scream and instead smack it with the ear plug wrapper while jerking like the computer didn't like my answer and had chosen to retaliate with electroshock therapy.

Getting through the essay portion was cake - now on to the word association.

I stared at the grainy dark screen at two completely unrelated words. Five more followed in their wake. It was horrible. I had no clue. It was like: abomination: chair and turkey: stapler. I was shocked. So - I just started clicking away. I just wanted it to go away.

I shouldn't have.

The next section was math.

I winced as I read thefirst problem involving a farmer, his fencing needs and something about the perimeter of the field. Okay, I can do this. P=135, I wrote neatly on my provided yellow paper. I glanced at the answers to try to gleam some clue on how to solve it. No help. I looked back at my paper. Sighing I drew a rectangle on the paper, a stick figure with a pitch fork and then lined the rectangle with a picket fence. I then looked back at the answers and then at the clock.

I picked "c" and moved on.

Every single one of the math problems had the option to answer with "cannot derive an answer based on the information given." It was very tempting to answer them ALL with this completely logic statement. After all, I could not solve the problems with the information given!

Somehow - I don't think the angry, short, white dudes who made up the test would agree.

I got home and Harry asked "So, how'd ya do?"

"I think I bombed it," I said in a poor-me-who-didn't-even-remotely-study voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I bet you did fine!" he said and then hugged me, "hey -wanna go find out how many Wii's Kmart is getting?"

I make it until 12:30AM - the parking lot is dark and the ten or so of us huddled in the front of the red-glowing store. I'm on my third episode of "Scrubs" and even though I'm a HUGE Zach Braff fan - not even his fantasy cut scenes could keep the bitter cold from slicing through my jeans and making me shiver like a non-caffei caffeine addict.

So I left.

I'm home for forty-five minutes when my cell breaks into my fitful dreams.

"Uhm, hello?" I say. The room is spinning - that can't be good.

"Hey, can you come get me? I'm going to go get hand warmers for everyone - they'll hold my place in line." It was two in the morning and Harry sounded chipper. He was lucky he was on the other end of the phone...

"Yeah, yeah. Now?" I stupidly ask.

"Uh -yeah. Nowish would be good. And can you grab me an umbrella and another pair of sweatpants?"

"Yeah, yeah... What? An umbrella and what?" My stomach is turning and the drool is still wet on my cheek. I'm too tired to understand simple orders.

"Sweat-pants," Harry says slowly.

"Sweatpants? Why?" I'm not making any sense. And I know I'm not making any sense - yet I ask - or stall for time...

"To wear..." He's ready to kill me. I know this. And with good cause. I mean, what else would he be doing with sweatpants while standing out in frigid temperatures? Using them as a hat and wrapping the legs around his neck like a scarf?

So I yank myself out of bed - throw on pants (I slept in my bra and shirt) and head out the door.

Hours later, I have a comatose hubby and a brand new "Wii".

Yay.

But that's not where the fun begins. Later, we open the box and set it up in less than five minutes. He hands me my controller and my "nunchuck."

We're ready.

"What do you want to play?"

I look at him and think of last night - "Boxing" I say quickly.

He stands up and starts flailing the controller around like a two year old in mid-tantrum. I remain seated - and kick his ever-lovin' ass!

JAB! JAB! PUNCH! DODGE! PUNCH COMBO! PUNCH! KO! KO! KO!

I scream like a woman who's just beat-down her much-more dextrous husband and we play again. I win a whole bunches more - Harry sucker punches me and wins one. Whatev.

"Tennis?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, red-faced with sheer exhilaration of the fight.

I winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

"Bowling?" he asks, cheeks flushed with indignation at not only being beaten by a girl but by his clumsy, ill-coordinated, sports-phobic wife!

"No - thanks, anyway." I sit down and remove my controller strap.

"C'mooooooonnnnnnn," he whines.

"Okay!" I hop up and bowl like I've never bowled before - with a small white stick.

Well - I don't really want to go into the details - because it's not about who wins (me) or who loses (Harry) - it's about how you play the game.

Friday, November 17, 2006

I had to be at work at 8AM this morning for a staff meeting. I somehow managed to pick "the seat of death" also known as the one next to the Managing Partner. This "hot seat" is bad for two reasons. One, I have to try to eat a very messy, slightly cold biscuit while not spilling any crumbs down my low cut sweater and thus having to spend most of the meeting trying to subtly dislodge the bits from between my boobs. Two, I don't feel as free to lodge my complaints when the "Supreme Lawyerman" is sitting within head-smackin' distance.

So, while he discusses things like smoke breaks (don't need 'em) and overtime (don't care enough to stay long enough past 5 to earn it) and busy end of the year stuff (YAWN!) I doodle on my sheet of paper. While I'm half-way through drawing a cute, bobble-headed kitty with large black eyes, the tiniest secretary pipes up.

"What about Christmas?" she asks, sounding very much like Wendy Lou Whoo.

The "Supreme Lawyerman" jokingly references the Grinch and we all laugh good-naturedly and like our jobs depended on it - because - well - it does.

Silence.

"Anything else?" he says while not answering Wendy Lou Secretary's question. She looked puzzled - or hungry - it was hard to tell sometimes.

"So...." I said without thinking, "we've successfully avoided the Christmas discussion, then?"

Poison daggers are shot at me from the watery eyes of the ancient office manager and from the bug-eyes of Lawyerman - who switches quickly from Mr. Hyde back to the jovial Dr. Jeckyl before announcing "Well, that will be decided later..." Good thing since it's MID-NOVEMBER AS IT IS!

And - my last gripe of the morning - why is it that when men think they're being quiet while their wife is sleeping - they're actually making more noise than usual? Last night, in the midst of video game warfare, Harry "snuck" into the bedroom, slammed the door, wrestled loudly to wiggle his Xbox out from under the television and then left the room, slamming the door again and leaving me sitting up, glaring at the back of his "quiet" head.

"Babe, do you even KNOW how loud you were last night?" I asked him this morning while he wiped the drool from his face with the back of his hand.

"Huh?" was his prompt response. In the realm of the "Marrieds" this is a classic response from "Avoidance 101."

"You. Last night. Were soooo loud! Can you not be quiet when I'm sleeping?"

"I wasn't loud! You didn't even wake up!" This was from "Defense 302".

"You came in, slammed the door, rustled around under the tv unit, grabbed the system and then left, slamming the door again while I sat up in bed and glared at you," I pointed out.

"Oh." He smiled sheepishly, "was I really being that loud?"

Marriage 101 also taught me this: I can milk this for days! And it's a weekend! Whoo hoo!

:)

AND THEN: I needed to call a judge's office and tell them that an attorney of mine was running a few minutes late, so I found a number, dialed and listened to the answering machine list off about 30 extensions. Finally I hit one, figuring SOMEONE could just transfer me:

"Judge Chambers, how may I help you?" a friendly woman answered the phone.

"Sorry to bother you but I was trying to reach Judge OddLastName - can you tell me his extension?" I pleaded my case.

There was an enlongated pause as I tried to figure out how I'd managed to piss off a yokel in three point two seconds.

"Ma'am? This is Judge OddLastName's office. It's the Judge's chambers," she summed up my mental defection with her cunning sarcasm.

It was my turn to pause.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. I get it!" The lightbulb appeared above my head with an inaudible ding!

So - if there was a Judge Chambers - would his office be Judge Chambers' chambers?

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Through financial woes and times of frightening "we may lose the house" instances- she always managed to pull through. And even now, with rheumatism racking her fragile body, she's still willing to come to my house and help me clean in preparation for party guests and to run after my niece in all her three-year-old hyper glory.

But then we have conversations like these where my definition as the family "accident" comes very much into play:

"I don't think I'm going to go back to Grad School next semester. Just don't think it's for me," I said while twirling a lock of frizzy hair in front of my eyes.

"I never thought it was. I never have thought that English was your strong point, that being a writer was something you were meant to do. I mean, you're good at it, but it's not your strong point," she said.

I was stunned.

"Well, then, what do you think I should be doing?" I asked, waiting to hear what she thought the fates had in store for me.

"I don't know - but certainly not writing..." she trailed off.

Frankly speaking, I'm not worth much. I'm not the life of the party, I don't have culinary skills that would wow Rachel Ray and her cheatin' hubby, I do not possess the mindset to be able to become a chess prodigy, nor do I see myself discovering the cure for cancer or baldness.

But I'm funny.

And I can write things that, on the occasion, people find amusing.

So how is this not my strong point?

How is something that I love to do - not what I'm "meant" to do?

And why, at 28 years young, do I still care what my mother thinks of me and my occupational destiny?

Now, sitting at my crappy desk, facing the crappy elevator shaft and wallowing in crappy self-pity I realize that I've done all of this to myself. I've convinced others that my self-worth is that only slightly above a wheat penny and that I'm of no consequence.

Would Freud blame this on my mother? Maybe.

Would he be right? Maybe.

Well, huh. Perhaps THIS is the perfect example of why I'm so hesitant to spawn...

Summer called me last night to relay the following incident that happened at the humble abode of my parents.

For sanity's sake and for the ease of reading - I have inserted spaces into my sister's dialogue - only - I can assure you - there were none.

"So I was sitting in the chair next to the t.v. and was being lazy and not wanting to get up to get a drink and I ask Mom 'Hey - what's dad doing?' to which she looked over and down the hall to the kitchen. Mom then said, 'He's sitting in his chair, making a mess, playing with a model - something. And now, he's got a lighter out, probably gonna burn down the house and he's-' And then, from the kitchen I hear: 'OUCH!' as dad caught his finger on fire!"

She then laughed so hard she snorted, and I snorted and Harry looked at me as if I'd gone insane.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

If the powers-that-be would invent White Out - Life Edition - then I would've liked to have bought a bucket and slathered it on the day that was yesterday.

It started out with a rather uninspiring job interview where I was asked to work too many hours for insulting pay (having a college education does NOT a good job applicant, make!) and then went to work at my current crappy job (where I'm asked to do too much work for insulting pay).

I then had a "Conference" with my tiny-handed-Professor who informed me that I was to have brought print outs of my sources for the Graduate Proposal that I am working on for his class. Even though he never mentioned this as being an important part of the conference - I was expected to have it handy.

I then told him that I was having issues finding articles and sources related to feminism critique and "Maggie" by Stephen Crane. He scoffed and pulled up Marshall's webpage and started typing and clicking away. Fifteen minutes later I was still staring at the back of his greasy head while he found one source. Thanks for that, PhD man! He then insinuated that I should find other sources on my own and to consider changing my topic and conference as well. Um, no.

But around every dark, stormy cloud, there is a silver-plated lining. This morning I opened my e-mail to find a note from my editor asking if I'd consider taking her Press Pass and do the cover story for the "We Are Marshall" movie premiere, should she not be able to attend.

I did a happy dance in my chair, came dangerously close to falling out of it, and then emailed her back, letting her know, in no uncertain terms - that I'd be happy to be the "Robin" to her "Batman"!

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Since the Holly-daze are swiftly approaching like a speeding train with no brakes - I will depart on to you some wisdom from a seasoned retail sales clerk"

THINGS TO REMEMBER WHILE SHOPPING THIS SEASON:

1. Shopping carts and Baby Strollers are NOT to be used as battering rams! This includes when a slow-moving person in front of you is hindering your path to Bath and Body Works. Trust me - the overpriced, olfactory-assaulting crap will be there when you arrive, no matter the time.

2. Do NOT call a store and demand that the sales associate run all over the store and look for items for you. This is called "SHOPPING" and you can now do it on the greatest invention ever: The World Wide Web.

3. However, should you decide to make a sales clerk run from one end of her store to the other to find that perfect pair of sparkly, peep toe pumps, make sure you know Aunt Sally's size for sure AND that you actually come pick them up!

4. DON'T eat mall food. They foodies are as disgruntled as the next retail clerk. And they will retaliate.

6. Don't try to make conversation with the poor girl with her name tag on upside down and hair pulled up in a sloppy bun away from her flushed cheeks. She WILL kill you by afixiating you with a plastic shopping bag - all the while singing "Jingle Bell Rock."

7. Buy Gift Certificates.

8. Do NOT take your kids shopping with you. Leave them at home with their father(s). Or at Day Care. Or a Kennel. Whatever - just DON'T bring them with you - unless they are on those inhumane little nylon leashes. No, wait - just leave 'em at home.

9. Make a list - get what's on the list and get out. This is not a drill. This will be the real thing. Be aware that you may lose a limb to get to the single TMX Elmo left in all of the United States.

10. And finally, while you are shopping - say nothing. Do not speak. Do not wish anyone "Happy Holidays" - pretend to be mute. It will make those of us who were stuck in retail drudgery for YEARS that much happier when we are forced to enter the dreaded "mall" and be pleasantly surprised by the massive quiet that descends.

I have only seen pieces of the masterpiece "The Birds" by Hitchcock. However, as frightening as that may be - NOTHING can beat the sound of thousands of tiny, confused birds flitting from tree to tree and fighting over territory like gangs of little, feathery hoodlums (The Beaks and The Claws?).

I awoke early this morning to head to an appointment, and after leaving the bathroom, turning off my radio and hair dryer, I stepped into the darkened bedroom to find my hubby lying on my pillow with a kitty wrapped around his arm. I paused as a strange noise filled my freshly cleaned ears.

'Is that-? Are those-? Is that sound from all those birds?" I asked him incredulously as a loud boom of peeps, chirps and caws broke forth.

"Yup," he said sleepily and stretched one hairy arm up into the air, "I think they're confused."

"They're scary is what they are!" I sat down on the bed and thanked my lucky stars that I parked in the garage. The big swarm of feathery, flighty friends have taken residence in the three tiny trees in our front yard. Once bright green, these little trees have faded with the season but appear to be completely black due to the amount of tiny creatures living in them. When we go to get the mail, or just pull into the driveway, they swarm up and out in a large looping circle and attempt to play chicken with one another as they swoop lower and lower to the innocent humans just trying to get the junk mail from Ed McMahon.

"They're after me..." I whisper to no one as I pull carefully out of the garage and try not to glance into the rearview at the growing black crowd of angered birds.

They know me - and I think back to that fateful day when, in an open-aired mall in the heart of Paradise - I got pooped on.

Friday, November 10, 2006

After finally arriving at the Ashland Plaza Hotel with a snazzy "I'm Not Really a Waitress" nail polish manicure, the fun began. The "naughty tupperware" party began and we all had to do "truth or dare". Some dares were stupid, others were downright orgasmic - either way - I was happy when it was over and I could wash all the "fun" sticky sweets off my body (we tested ten different "edible' body paints, glitters, stimulators and such). Don't get me wrong - it was too fun and Tffany had taken the time to pin up Playgirl "hey - look - there's my penis" pictures all over the room and under each toilet seat.

I was going to stay and enjoy some more fun times with the girls, but I decided to pack up my little blue suitcase and come on home. At 2 AM I end up in the middle of a DUI checkpoint. Seeing as how I'd only downed sodas - I wasn't concerned.

Cute officer man looked at me and said : "Hello, ma'am- would you like to take some time to answer a few questions about underage drinking?" He was a hottie and before I could start penning my letters to penthouse, I said: "Do I have to?"

"Oh - well. I think I'll skip it. I'm not even wearing a brasierre!" I chuckled and felt the fire burn my face. I hadn't even considered that confessing my lack of "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder" might actually get me frisked (hmm!) but the fact that I shared this fact with a copper and used the elderly term of "brasierre"! UGH!

So - he patted my hand, much like he would to his grandma and said "You get on home..."

I must face facts - I'll never be in Penthouse Forum...

Sigh....

Unless... Okay - I'm off to call a tv repairman, a plumber and a pizza boy!

Thursday, November 9, 2006

1. My new (and first) fellow Grad Student friend asked if I would mind to meet her parents. I had been waving "Hi!" to them as I left class and they arrived to make sure their daughter Nicole made it safely to her car - and didn't get attacked - which - I think - is WONDERFUL! Nicole said, "Well, I want them to meet you since - well - I've been a Grad Student for years now - And I've never met anyone like you!" She blinked her purple eyelids at me. I didn't know what to say. I was pretty sure she meant it in a good way, and not in a "Hey- you're weirder than the tiny-handed Prof that teaches this class!" So I smiled and said "sure!"

"You're just so different! I mean, most other Grad Students try to outsmart each other - and you're not like that at all! You're so bubbly and down to earth!" And that, my dear readers, is like gold to a chick who feels like a very round, very pronounced peg in a tiny little square hole.

2. I finally had an in-group discussion with the other Grad Student in my class. She talked over everyone and was so opinionated and overbearing that, in a moment of weekness I found myself trying to mentally make her choke on her piece of minty gum that she was smacking while we were discussing "House of Mirth."

3. I walked out of class with two very attractive, very much thinner than me and very smart girls. They then both took turns telling me how pretty I was. Smiling graciously and thanking them profusely I got into my Denali and pondered this: "Is it better to have a pretty girl tell you you're pretty - or an ugly one to tell you of your beauty? And if a pretty girl proclaims your attractiveness - is it a farce? Do they mean it? Or are they inwardly saying either "NOT!" or "...but I'm prettier..." I decided to, instead, launch a crooked smile into my rearview and take the compliment as it was given.

School has been going very well - other than the occassional mental break-downs and nail-bitingly close deadlines.

But I'm almost done - and then- well - that's still open.

I think I had to go to Grad School to realize a few things: it's not for me; I'm not that old; and I'm still smart.

Wednesday, November 8, 2006

Anyway - as of today - I'm yanking Kat Freeman from the cyber world - her blog is being pulled and has been sent off to an e-publisher in hopes of getting a teeny bit of recognition from it and being able to put "semi-quasi-published author" after my name!

So - thanks! (FANGS! ahahahah)

PS. After pulling up my AOL, signing in and then trying to update my journal - I had to sign in TWO MORE TIMES to get to this screen! Geeesh! Anyone else having issues with this?

1. My sister calls me last night sounding overly dejected because she has a divorce hearing this morning -understandable. So even though I have more to do than most football teams, I invite her over and even promise that I'll help to dye her hair (which I hate to do - messy!). So - she shows up and eats her Taco Bell and all the while hacks and coughs all over my house like a one-woman influenza parade. The doorbell rings. It's her boyfriend - she invited him over. I'm in old ratty pajama pants and a sweat shirt - sans bra. We all go about talking and dying Summer's hair and while she's sitting next to me and letting her hair air dry and discussing the real world version of "The Old Man And the Sea," I interrupt her and role reversal steps in: "OHMYGOD,Summer,yourhairisturinggray!"

Sure enough - the dye didn't take on the blonde part - it's red on the roots and gray on the ends. And Stacey's wedding is this Saturday.

Then, and I'm not sure if the dye had seeped through or if it was just a lingering "blonde moment" but during Harry's re-telling of a story of a man who ran fifty marathons in fifty states, back-to-back, Summer chimed in: "Well, wonderifhecamethroughWestVirginia?"

Harry stared at his sister-in-law like a man confused - and a little scared. "Well, since there are only fifty states, I'm pretty sure WV was one of them..."

She looked at him blankly and then burst out laughing and snorting.

We continued to stare at her in confusion and horror.

But it could've just been the bad dye job.

2. My office manager is sick again - so that means no one here can function without buzzing me at least fourteen times a minute. Case in point:

"Holly, (Incapable, Older-than-most-buildings, Office Manager) and I were to have a meeting today - can you take care of that?" Lawyerman said.

I pause. I have no f'n clue what he's talking about and have to find a delicate way of telling him that not only has his train of thought lost direction - but it's derailed at the station. No survivors.

"Okay. What exactly would you like me to do?" I asked as politely as I could while crossing my eyes and flipping off the phone on my desk for good measure.

"Well, call her and ask her if she'll be in and whether or not we need to reschedule." I'm assuming he wants me to call my "sick" co-worker and get the details.

"I'll figure something out!" I say to him cheerfully before slamming down the black, shiny receiver and counting to ten while envisioning a happier place. Like me, at work, with a large, shiny chainsaw. VRRRRRRRRRRRM!

3. The construction workers that are jackhammering the pavement RIGHT BELOW MY OFFICE WINDOW have a death wish. They do not know that seven stories above them - I am peering at their, tiny, helmeted heads and again practicing my telekinesis. With any luck - the one driving the back ho will soon turn on his cronies - and all will be according to plan.... And if that doesn't work - I will have to do what any other chick would do in my place. I will simply ride the elevator down, open the door, cross the street, unzip my pointy boot and start whapping them about their much unprotected nether regions.

4. AND THEN my building has the entire sidewalk, street and door marked off with "CAUTION" tape. A large cherry picker is parked on the sidewalk. I walked up to the tape that was strung across orange barrels and adjusted my bag, changed hands with my umbrella and plucked the tape off the barrel. I then stepped over the tape and strolled right into the building, obviously heeding no "CAUTION" to the yellow, useless tape.

Here are some pictures I took at work:

This one is my desk and me updating my journal:

The dreaded "Phone-a-sauras-Rex" not seen since ancient times....shhhhh be very, very quiet...

Two views from my window - PRE-Construction era:

5. After class tonight (in which we will be discussing the rather mirthless House of Mirth ) I am to go home and assemble the treats for the Bachlorette Party tomorrow night. And: fix my dress for the wedding, find my checkbook for the "naughty tupperware party," clean crock pot, add ingredients to my Amish Friendship Bread, try to figure out how to get 10 lbs of hair into a decent wedding 'do, and pack an overnight bag. AND then - after that - I will have to stand on a street corner with a sign that says "Crazy. Need Help. Give Prozac."

:)

Update: Well, seeing as how the "Naughty Tupperware Party" was supposed to be a surprise and that Stacey is a faithful reader of my blog- Tiffany immediately accosted me before the first ingestion of cheeseball: " Yeah, Stacey read your blog and figured out what was going on - she found out about the sex toy party." My first reaction, as a friend, and fellow planner of the shindig was "Holy Crap - I didn't even realize I did that!" My second reaction came from the (majority) of my self - the writer: "I WILL NOT BE CENSORED!"

Monday, November 6, 2006

I decided to write a bit about the exploding ice cream cone incident for the "VoiceboxX" -it's a rehash of my journal entry - but could be entertaining - or fair warning - for all of you who may come in contact with milk products today -- Beware....

On a better note - Harry and I made homemade ice cream in our handy dandy ice cream maker on Sunday morning. I love breakfast! AND it didn't explode on me! Harry, however, was not so lucky:

Um - Harry? You've got a bit on your - um - well - never mind! Enjoy!

Harry helps me "clean" the bowl...

Previous to the above ice cream making event I had a bad dream- a very large bug had flown down from the ceiling and had attached itself to Harry's pillow. I screamed and started beating at his head, trying to keep this massive winged bug away from my hubby's head.

"Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug!" I screamed like a banshee in heat. "BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!" I turned on the bedside lamp and looked at Harry who was sitting up, clad in boxers and a white Polo tee. He had an odd look on his face, one that was a mixture of astonishment, concern and sleepiness.

"There was a -uh- bug?" I half-asked, half-explained. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had been completely asleep up until the moment I flipped on the light and found myself nose-to-nose with a pissed off Himalayan and a scared out of his mind husband.

"There's no bug," he said and tried to lay back down.

"Yes! There was a bug! A BIG BUG and it was on your pillow!" I yanked the pillow out from under his head and searched it thoroughly.

Harry banged his head on the mattress in defeat while I continued to search his pillow for bugs.

See why I have to give in and make homemade ice cream and wash his man panties and watch the occassional game of football? Cause I'm completely NUTS! And he loves me anyway. So there. :)

Sunday, November 5, 2006

My weekend started out bad and quickly accelerated into "really f'n bad" in a short time.

1. I found out that my paper that I had worked on and slaved over until I finally puttered out ten pages - was done completely wrong.

2. Friday I found out that Gillian was in the hospital with some crazy high fever and that they were leaning towards giving her a spinal tap - lucky for us - they didn't - but still - it was scary there for a bit.

3. Stress levels reached an all-time high while at a shooting range on Saturday. While trying to learn how to properly shoot a gun, I got the fleshy part of my finger caught in the action and commenced an immediate melt-down. I immediatly had Harry to take me home and then begged and pleaded for him to take me to the local crazy house. I wanted a penthouse suite at HCA - but decided against it when he told me that their sheets were less than 200 thread count.

4. I decided that at almost 30 years old - I was never going to learn how to use a (ALL MEN SKIP THE REST OF THIS ENTRY AND GO TO #5) tampon. I tried it again and had the distinct and rather unpleasant feeling of having a piece of cotton jammed up my "no-no" region. Sigh. I have determined that I am the proverbial "old dog" who cannot be taught "new tricks."

5. Now, it's Sunday and I'm in my snug recliner and feeling anxious but a little less stressed since I'm slightly ahead on my Graduate Poetry class (can't work on it Thursday - I'm Bachlorette Party Bound!). However, I'm a bit worried that I may get "tapped" again and my head is feeling a bit too exposed at the moment.

Here are some pics of Gillian from when she was feeling better last Tuesday, Halloween. She was supposed to be Tinkerbell or Strawberry Shortcake- instead - she looks like a "Naked Jedi" which morphed, later, into "The Streak." Boogedy, boogedy!:

Play that piano, Jedi Streaker! :)

And when she was not feeling so well:

She's better now! The fever is gone now - after three days...

So - here's hoping that this week - the week that marks my bud Stacey's last few days as a Sassy Singletong - will be fabulous. If not - well - I think the nuthouse still has my reservations...

Wednesday, November 1, 2006

Generally, I hate it when my hubby travels for many reasons too numerous to list here (lonely, leaves me to find solace in a cat with sinus problems who likes to sleep on my head, boogeyman...) but sometimes, just sometimes I can see the silver lining - and it looks like this:

Pretty, pretty shoes for my pinky, dinky toes! Okay- so his traveling sucks toe jam on the frequent occassion but some of these podunk towns have - wait for it - OUTLETS! From which a lovely pair of Coach flat patchwork shoes were acquired for me! I LOVE THEM and will wear them until they fall apart and I have to patch them for real!

Yesterday, I was watching the clock as it was slowly ticking towards Five PM - a.k.a. "The Golden Hour" when I would be able to escape the Legalease World in which I'm trapped for 7.5 hours a day, five days a week, too many days a year - when up strolls one of my elderly co-workers. Now, at first glance, you cannot tell that she is of a mature age. Her hair is dyed to the color of snow that has been colored by dog urine, her face is dewey with expensive QVC moisturizer and the fine lines that ring her mouth is masked in lipstick bought from the dollar bin at Kmart. However, as she approaches, one can tell that her age is not only edging on Senior Citizen, but has surpassed it, smacked it on the back of the head and is now comfortably resting with one Payless pump in the grave.

She had beef with me.

"What is your problem with this entry?" she spat and waved a paper in front of my face. I calmly took the paper from her and inwardly resisted the urge to cut her like a Paper-cutting trained Samari for two reasons. One, it was almost time to leave and two, a Lawyerman was standing at my desk, in mid-polite conversation about the joys of trick-or-treaters in the "nicer neighborhoods."

"Well, it was an 'expense' entry and I wasn't sure if deleting it would cause any problems with the books or something," I explained and then smiled at Lawyerman to make sure he knew how ridiculous this Q&A was.

"Holly," she said in a tired, irritated voice that comes from people who arrive an hour late every morning, take extended lunches and leave at 5:01 everyday, "if it's marked out then you delete it." I wanted to kill her. Murder her with the ease of pushing a button and then picking up my keyboard and striking her over and over until her face slides off and reveals the evil alien pod within.

"I've learned it's always best to ask questions," I said in a very happy and cheery voice and winked at Lawyerman (who was still hovering). Actually I was trying very hard to talk myself OUT of ripping off her bulbous nose with a letter opener.

"I think that's always a good plan! Best to ask!" Lawyerman agreed with me and went back to making notes on his yellow pad.

Smoke billowed from my ancient co-worker's droopy ears. I feared the steam would melt her gold-plated earrings of early 80's origin. She flung the invoice at me and stormed off.

Holly

About Me

Some things could only happen to me... or Jerry Lewis... A seemingly ordinary event like, say, grocery shopping often ends with my imminent peril. All for your enjoyment, of course.
This past September marked my 30-something birthday and with it, the final notch on the bedpost of my writing career. A tiny thing, really. Didn't have much of a chance of survival with my chubby hands wielding a pen, after all!
And speaking of chubby hands, in 2010 I gave birth to my son, Harry the Fourth (he's definitely his daddy's namesake!) and my life has NOT been the same since. But, ya know, in a good way. :)
So, if all else fails, I might make you laugh, or cry. Or maybe even both. So pull up a comfy couch or an ergonomic chair and read, partake in my oopsies, wonder at my blunders and snarf heartily at my guffaws as I navigate my life and try to survive the new one I created.
With much love,
Me.